Whitefish River she fears I'll be a servant to my history

her winding trail takes her once more beyond the borders. it can not be helped; the robin she's trailing is a flighty thing, moving ever further away. when finally it flutters further away than she can hope to follow it, she takes stock of her surroundings; distantly, perhaps over that ridge, the river rushes on. it is a quite glen she finds herself in now; that is, for this fleeting moment at least, lit by careful rays of sunlight filtering boldly through the cloud cover. the girl blinks, stepping toward a sprig of green that appears too fresh, too new, to belong to any of the previous summer's life. 

@Zephyr (?)